


Spoiled

by nameloc_ar_115



Series: Centuries [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Historical Setting (B.C.), Brief Exhibitionism, Enemies (technically) to Lovers, General Derek, Hair-pulling, Lap Sex, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Orphan Stiles, Spoils of War, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-02 04:10:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6550198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nameloc_ar_115/pseuds/nameloc_ar_115
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is a warrior, a virgin, several propositions, and the aftermath of a final battle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spoiled

**Author's Note:**

> Just a friendly note that at this point, the fics in this series will be stand-alones united under a common theme, rather than separate parts of a continuous series.

                The general was wiping down in his tent after a final gory victory, caked with windswept dirt and blood and sweat. They would be turning back home now, with their final conquest acquired, their last opposition destroyed. The men were celebrating, as they deserved to after the last three years of constant death and bloodshed. But even so, the noise they were creating was truly raucous. Drunken calls and cheers echoed; their clapping and stomping thundered.

                Something must have gotten their attention. He sighed, wondering whether to investigate or leave them be. A scream rang out moments later, and the decision was made for him.

                He followed the cacophony to one of the many campsites, nothing immediately remarkable save for the crowd of men gathered around it. The throng was six-men deep, all the way around. He pushed through it, the men choking on filthy insults and restraining cocked elbows when they realized who was passing them.

                Derek broke into the inner circle, stumbling onto a truly vivid sight of debauchery. By the chiton, it was a male. How old, he couldn’t tell—what with the stranger’s face pressed into the dirt. He was restrained by five men, one at each wrist and ankle, the last holding his head down. Judging by the bleeding gouges on the last man’s forearm, the prisoner had sunk both top and bottom teeth into him.

                The soldiers had stretched the man cruelly, such that he had no leverage to thrash out of their holds. His knees and the toes of his sandals dug indents into the dirt beneath him, his clothing flipped onto his back.

                Lewd slurs were shouted, suggesting how best to defile him. A sixth soldier was twisting two fingers into the captive, rubbing his own groin until his body caught up to his intentions.

                The smoke from the campfires was thick, the heat making the scent of wine cloying and the unwashed bodies of men oppressive.

                “That’s enough,” he boomed. He made sure they could hear him over the din. The men released their victim and stepped back, some looking alarmed, others chastised. The stranger restored his chiton to its proper position but kept his forehead pressed to the ground. His body trembled with fine shivers.

                “He’s only a wretch from the city, sir,” a soldier assured, spitting in the figure’s direction. “We found him inside one of the homes. The city was deserted; we had a right to its spoils.”

                The general grunted. “Be that as it may, you will have to find something else to amuse yourselves tonight.” He walked forward and scooped the foreigner into his arms with little resistance. The crowd parted for him, the noise and merriment rebuilding before he had even made it back to his tent. They would not be dissuaded from their festivities over such a trivial matter.

                The lighting within his tent confirmed a suspicion that had been festering within him the short journey back to his quarters. The stranger was not quite a man; he had barely grown out of boyhood and was lingering in the tender in-between of adolescence.

                He deposited the boy onto his bed, the foreigner’s chest heaving with tight, closed-mouth breaths. The youth was silent, but his eyes burned with defiance. Perhaps he had mistaken the boy’s trembling at the campsite. Perhaps it had been fury, not fear.

                “Calm yourself,” he murmured. “I won’t hurt you.”  

                In response, the boy’s mouth ticced, ready to assume a sneer, before his lips fell flat. They were unnaturally red at the corners and along the seam, a remnant from the encounter with one of his captors. Dirt covered the right side of his face, from cheekbone to temple.

                The general dipped a cloth into the bucket sitting near his bed. The boy jerked his head away when Derek tried to clean him, the air shooting from his nose like an enraged bull’s.

                He dropped the rag back into the water, abandoning that objective for now. “What’s your name?” The youth turned to face him, if only to glower and remain silent. “Do you know who I am?”

                The boy’s voice was rough and scraping, unused. Derek could only guess how long he had remained in his forsaken city. The consonants of his speech were too hard, the syllables either drawn-out or crowded, betraying his accent. “Yes, I know who you are,” he whispered gravely. “You are General Hale; Dust-Maker, Body-Breaker, Wolf-Brother. Undefeated in battle.”

                Derek swiped a hand over his eyes, huffing with amusement. He had stopped keeping track of the ridiculous titles the foreigners bestowed upon him. “For you, ‘Derek’ will suffice.”

                The boy inspected him. Blatantly untrusting, his posture rigid and unforgiving. He was a stubborn thing. The bite on the soldier alone would confirm that.

                “Will you let me?” He lifted the rag back from the bucket, letting it drip. The boy tested him, waiting nearly half a minute before nodding slowly.

                Derek removed the dirt, exposing the trailing arch of an eyebrow, several beauty marks in the hollow under the boy’s cheekbone. Surprisingly, the foreigner parted his lips with little fuss when the cloth moved to them. No longer painted with blood, the boy’s mouth was as soft and pink as the ripe, inner flesh of a fig. The boy observed him, eyes liquid and glassy in the lamplight.  

                “Would you like something to wash that taste from your mouth?” The boy’s hands gripped the blankets, knuckles whitening. “Wine,” he clarified, locking their eyes back together. “Would you like some wine?”

                More nodding.

                He fetched the wineskin and handed it to the boy, who took a long gulp before setting it aside. He hoped it would soothe the youth while he washed the dirt from his knees. The chiton fell to the same level, and the general had to nudge the hem upwards, fingertips sliding up the beginnings of his thighs. Maybe the efficiency of his movements assured the boy that he meant no ill intent because the foreigner remained still against the pillows.      

                “Who are you?” Derek again inquired.  

                “I am no one. An orphan,” the boy responded.

                “Is that why you stayed?” He reached carefully forwards for one hand, ensuring that he didn’t grab or pull, waiting for the boy to relinquish it to him. He cleaned both palms with broad strokes of the rag.   

                “I had nowhere else to go. I belong to no one.”  

                “You must’ve known that we were coming. The rest of your city, save for your soldiers, had already evacuated.”

                “Yes,” the boy sighed, turning his eyes to the ceiling of the tent. “I was waiting for you. For whatever end you decided.”

                Finished, Derek dropped the cloth into the bucket and pushed it aside with his foot. “It doesn’t change anything, but the scene out there was not an end of my planning.”

                The general released a weary exhale, sore and exhausted. This long into a campaign, one habituated to the constant strain on the body. But, in his last decade of leading armies, he had never become conditioned to the strains on the soul and the spirit. Something for which he either praised or cursed the gods, depending on the day.   

                He rubbed over his forehead before taking his own drink of wine. “They leave the women, the children, and the elderly unharmed and unmolested. It is my single limitation on their depravities, and they know well to follow it. But you,” the boy’s eyes dropped back to Derek’s face, gazing from under dark lashes, “you’re a young man. In their eyes, another warrior. They would not abide such a restriction, especially for a foreigner; it is too contradictory to their training.”

                The youth sat up, grimacing slightly at the new position. “Then why help me? If to do so is a lost cause.”

                “Because war does not excuse one from moral duty. What was done to you was vile. You can’t be older than twenty years.”

                “Seventeen,” the orphan supplied stiffly.  

                The general swallowed another mouthful of wine to drown his disgust. “Had you lain with anyone? Man or woman?” Derek had been surrounded by the crude and the uncouth for too long of a stretch to even attempt social grace.

                The youth cast his legs over the side of the bed, sitting opposite him. The foreigner’s eyes narrowed a fraction before he shook his head from side to side.

                “I find that hard to believe,” the general replied thoughtfully.

                “Why’s that?” the boy hissed. “Because you found me with my legs open, you think that I give myself to anyone?” The spark dancing behind the youth’s eyes had finally been kindled into a blaze. The adolescent had been stifling his hostility for the last several minutes, but his pride would not allow this perceived insult.  

                “Because you are exquisite,” Derek corrected, enunciating each word with conviction. “I find it hard to believe that the other boys and girls, men and women, did not stream after you in the city, begging for a taste of you.”

                What had been a promising conflagration abruptly sizzled and smothered, nothing left now but the dying coals. The boy reverted to a pose of unbearable vulnerability, his head drooping as he became absorbed with the sight of his own twisting hands in his lap. His cheeks glowed, blood-warm.

                Derek did not intend to cause the boy any further anxiety and rose to put some distance between them. The orphan snatched his wrist, striking as rapidly as a snake. The general was momentarily stunned, and the youth took advantage of that surprise to lean forward and touch their lips together.

                He pulled away slowly, not wanting to give the boy any reason to feel ashamed. He lifted the youth’s chin with the side of his finger to catch those enchanting eyes, far too sultry and consuming for someone who certainly didn’t grasp the extent of his own beauty. “What are you after?” the general mumbled, considering the question for himself at the same time.

                “I thought that was clear,” the boy quavered, swallowing.

                “We killed dozens of your brethren today. That doesn’t bother you?”

                The orphan’s eyes closed briefly. “They didn’t want me after my parents died. They thought me strange and tactless and meddlesome. Did they not kill many of your men today as well?”

                “They did,” Derek agreed.

                “I have no allegiance to either of you.”

                He sat down beside the boy. “Then why ask me for such a thing?”

                “All I have left is myself. And that warrior—that _barbarian_ ,” the boy snarled, “tried to take even that from me. _This_ is mine,” the youth almost pleaded now, grabbing his own arms and chest. “Can you understand that? To have your autonomy wrenched away from you so easily? I want to take it back. I want to remember my first encounter as something pleasant.”

                “And you think I can leave you with a pleasant memory?”

                “You are kind and honorable. I would like it to be you.”

                The boy’s fingers curled over his knee, slim-boned, the veins prominent on the back of his hand. Derek’s eyes traveled along the youth’s bare arm, to his shoulder. The sinew and muscle in the limb were lean, subtle, shifting elegantly with the boy’s movements. He was young, yes, but not a child. His body bore the early hallmarks of a man’s.

                “I have one request first.”

                “Yes?”

                “Tell me your name,” he entreated softly, thumbing across the orphan’s sloping cheek.

                “Stiles.”               

                Derek smiled. “Unusual. It suits you.”

                The boy’s lips curled until his laugh split them apart, exposing his top row of straight teeth. The expression scrunched his nose and brightened his face into something truly lovely.

                “Let’s do this properly. Take everything off.” He squeezed Stiles’ hand in reassurance and then set about searching through his things to find the pot of oil. He applied it when massaging the knots from his muscles after a long day, but it would work well enough for this.

                He found the pot in a travel sack, untying the twine that kept the lid secured. He carried it back to the bed, setting it on an adjacent stool.

                The boy had made quick work of his instruction, bare from head to toe. He was reclining against the pillows with one leg bent, seemingly out of modesty rather than flirtatiousness. He transcended appeal; even amidst his inexperience, his nervousness, the boy belonged there.  

                “Now you,” Stiles insisted, his voice fluttering.

                The general draped his clothes over the lone chair in his tent, kicking his sandals aside, before returning to the bed. He stood at its side for a few moments, to let the boy satisfy his curiosity, noting with interest and amusement the places Stiles’ eyes lingered as they skipped over his body.

                “Can we start with kissing?” the youth asked.

                Derek chuckled. “Of course. Never waste your time with a lover who refuses to kiss you.” The boy rose onto his elbows as Derek leaned down to meet him.

                Stiles’ awkwardness was endearing, just as charming as everything else about him. The boy surged forward into the kiss too eagerly, their teeth clacking and noses smashing together. He could feel the blazing heat of the orphan’s cheek only because it was pressing against the side of his neck. After the collision, the boy had ducked into his shoulder in embarrassment.

                “Shh.” He guided the youth out of his hiding place, cradling the boy’s face. “Sex is never perfect.  Pleasure doesn’t come from polished movements, despite what the courtesans and concubines practice. The enjoyment is in the spontaneity, the surprises of learning another’s body.”

                Their lips only grazed before Derek pulled away. Stiles pushed farther into the breadth of his palms, chasing the kiss. The general repeated the action but let his lips linger for a few seconds longer. This time, the boy released an annoyed huff and clambered onto his knees. With the third tease, Stiles acted quickly, trapping Derek’s bottom lip between his teeth when he tried to pull away.   

                He laughed with delight, succumbing to the long fingers tangling in his hair, urging him forward. He hummed against the boy’s mouth, pleased with Stiles’ budding confidence, his enthusiasm. The foreign boy thrived with a little nurturing patience and assurance. He came alive.

                 Stiles touched the places where his eyes had lingered. The youth’s hands slid over his neck, his chest, his back, desperate and hungry, grasping at skin and muscle, scratching over his flesh with blunt fingernails.

                “Derek?” Stiles panted, licking over his swollen lips. The boy was still kneeling in front of him, and occasionally, the bed would shake with the tremble of his thighs.

                A shudder tickled across and underneath his own skin, culminating in a visceral pleasure that surged from the pit of his stomach to the back of his throat. It had been years since he had been called his name. He didn’t allow it with the men, the foreigners preferred their ominous nicknames, and the few with which he had shared a bed during the span of the campaign had been given no name at all. And now, Stiles uttered it like the sole means to salvation, like a supplication to the gods, his voice wrecked and sex-drenched.

                 “Show me,” the boy whispered, combing through his hair, nudging their foreheads and noses together. “Show me how good it can be.”

                Derek nodded, indulging himself in several more open-mouthed kisses, licking the faint tartness of wine from Stiles’ mouth. “You might be more comfortable on your stomach,” he offered, applying a gentle pressure to the boy’s shoulder to try and turn him around.

                In this, Stiles would not yield. The orphan clung to his neck with a sudden, panicked resistance. “No. Don’t put me on my knees. Please.”

                “I won’t,” he promised, gathering the boy close and stroking down the length of his spine. Anger flared hot and sharp in his chest as he condemned the cruelty, the baseness of his fellow men.

                “What about this?” He prompted, coaxing the boy into his lap with a light hold on his hips. 

                Stiles moaned so sweetly, leaning into him, arms circling his shoulders. The first touch of their cocks was enough to make Derek inhale, and he pulled the youth closer until he had him seated firmly. Satiny, lean thighs clenched around his sides.  

                “I’ll go slowly.” He felt the boy’s nod against the crook of his neck, and Stiles’ fingers twined in the hair at his nape.

                The stool was close enough for him to dip two fingers into the oil, smooth and cool, dripping over the back of his hand as soon as he turned it upwards. He rubbed his slick fingers over the boy’s tailbone, Stiles’ body flinching away from the intrusion as he thought it would.

                He hushed the boy, kissing his slender neck in a wordless promise that he wouldn’t hurt him, wouldn’t rush him. Derek sucked a bruise when the blood beat strongly against his lips, and the tension in Stiles’ body incrementally uncoiled. The boy shifted against him when Derek’s teeth raked over the pinking skin of his throat. When coupled with pleasure, a sting or an ache could be made uniquely enjoyable, if done right.

                He used the distraction to slide his finger along the boy’s cleft, not pausing when his fingertip brushed over the dip of Stiles’ hole. It wasn’t time for that yet.

                Stiles breathed heavily against his ear. The trouble was that the sensation wasn’t unprecedented; he could have dealt with novelty. The boy’s only reference point for it was tainted and associated with raw pain and distress. Derek had already done his best to reassure him. Now, he could only be patient and allow Stiles to adjust.

                 He massaged the space behind the boy’s sac and continued to kissed him.

                “Easy now,” he warned, renewing the coat of oil on his fingers. The youth nodded and ducked in for another kiss. He circled Stiles’ back with one arm to steady him and traced around his rim.

                He puffed against the boy’s mouth, his self-control slipping as he felt the give of the boy’s hole. Simultaneously enticing and maddening. Thank the gods Stiles wasn’t bleeding, but the signs of misuse were apparent.

                He forced down the urge for revenge, to _throttle_ those responsible for such desecration. His own men. And what was the boy, to inspire such traitorous sentiment, such passion? 

                “Derek?” The sound pulled him out of head, back to the present. The orphan’s face was pinched with worry. “Have you changed your mind? Should I leave?” Stiles’ voice cracked, and he ducked his head when his eyes started to glisten.

                Stiles hadn’t cried when Derek brought him back to his tent. And he now suspected it was because while the youth had been brutalized and degraded, he had never trusted the soldiers or shared kindness with them. They couldn’t hurt the boy the way that Derek could. From what he knew of the foreigner’s life, he was probably the first person to have shown Stiles compassion and affection in a very long time.

                His chest swelled painfully with even the thought of Stiles feeling discarded, unwanted. So what was Stiles? Stiles was the innocence he had parted with long ago, evident in the boy’s tentative hands and his awed gasps. Stiles was the goodness that Derek often worried had abandoned the world. Stiles was the closest thing to perfection that he had yet to encounter.

                “No. Don’t leave me.” He kissed the boy with feeling, hauled him close until their fronts were molded together.

                He palmed one of Stiles’ ass cheeks, spreading him open farther, and returned to his previous task. He smeared enough oil to leave the boy dripping down both of their thighs and rubbed over Stiles’ quivering hole with concentration.

                “How does it feel?”     

                “Strange,” the boy admitted softly. “But not bad.”

                “And this?” He pressed the tip of his finger inside. It sank so easily into the plush heat that he wasn’t sure Stiles could feel it. But they both did. The boy’s thighs clamped tighter around him and then relaxed.

                Stiles’ throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Better,” he whispered.

                “Look at me, Stiles.” And the boy did. His eyes were wide and honest, all the emotion swirling around in them naked. “I’ll stop the moment it hurts. Just breathe.”

                He pressed deeper until his last knuckle had sunk inside, Stiles’ hole clutching greedily around his finger. His stomach cramped tight with the thought of that same pulsing pressure milking his cock. He crooked his finger in and out, holding his breath, his ears finely tuned to the boy’s noises.

                “A second?” he asked. He felt the ooze of beading precome at the head of his cock, trapped between both of their stomachs, rubbing against Stiles’ length any time the youth moved.

                “Yes.” Derek added more oil; there couldn’t be too much in this situation. Stiles held one of his biceps in a formidable grip, and when both fingers breached him, his mouth dropped open, lips forming a plump, pink “O.” A jagged breath escaped the boy, his eyes squeezed shut tightly.

                “Stiles?”

                The boy nodded, biting into his bottom lip and groaning, rocking slightly forward and back, testing the new feeling. Derek spread his fingers, scissoring as carefully as he could, working Stiles as loose and pliant as possible.

                He was agonizingly aware that Stiles had gifted him with something very precious. There was no room for error.

                Small wisps of breath hit his collarbone as the orphan panted into his skin. Derek leaned forward, lapping at one of the high, peaked nipples. They had been begging for attention, pointed and stiff from arousal, vibrantly pink like Stiles’ cock and mouth. With their current height difference, Stiles perched atop his lap, it was only too easy to suckle them.     

                A strangled noise left the boy’s mouth, and Derek grinned, switching to the other nipple, continuing the steady hook-and-twist of his fingers in the boy’s hole. That was what he had been waiting for. Stiles pried the general’s mouth away from his chest to press hot, wet kisses to his lips, twitching his hips with interest.

                “Last one. Relax. You’re doing beautifully.”

                 Stiles hissed, and Derek curled his fingers, searching. The boy arched and moaned, uninhibited, pulling Derek’s hair hard enough to make the general’s scalp tingle. Derek’s cock throbbed in response, surprising him.

                His prior bedmates had never tried that before. Furthermore, they did nothing that could be construed as forward or bold, probably from fear of his reputation. “Body-Breaker” was not a title that made people abandon caution. It was part of the reason he kept company with so few men and women. Even the prostitutes who had been trained to every whim and fetish trembled before him.

                And what did this splendid boy do? He handed his body over to Derek, trusting him to take care of it. And Stiles didn’t stop there. The virgin taught him things about himself that he did not even know. Stiles was a godsend, truly.

                He rumbled his pleasure against the boy’s throat, which was corded, the veins straining from the vocal exertion. Derek would guess that some of the soldiers outside even heard it. It was what they had all assumed would be Stiles’ fate anyway. They didn’t need to be corrected about the particulars.

                “By the gods,” Stiles breathed, his head tilted back, hanging on to Derek with his arms linked around his neck. “May I?” The boy released one arm, his hand poised and twitching over the pot of oil. Stiles’ body was curved and taut like a bowstring, Derek’s fingers still moving inside him, touching that spot as often as he could.  

                “Help yourself.” The orphan flashed a smile, dipping several fingers into the oil, letting it slide sluggishly to grease his palm. The length of those fingers promised dexterity, and the general fantasized about watching Stiles work himself open with them. Another time hopefully.  

                The boy took both of their cocks in hand, spreading the oil, and Derek added his own hand to complete the ring of their fingers. They moaned in unison, breaths mingling, trading deep kisses.

                After a few good strokes, Stiles nudged Derek’s hand away. His skin glimmered down to the wrist with oil as he pumped the general’s cock from root to tip, twisting his wrist on the upstroke with a natural ease that could only be derived from his own technique. The orphan’s eyes squinted in apparent calculation, eyeing Derek’s cock almost with scrutiny, and then he nodded to himself before dunking his fingers vigorously into the oil pot.

                Derek snorted in amusement. “Are you trying to flatter me?”

                The boy grinned, slathering more oil along Derek’s cock, daring to squeeze his sac. The general grunted, and Stiles only beamed more brightly. It was a beautiful thing to witness, that carefree attitude, the hint of playfulness and wickedness. He wondered about the last time Stiles had been happy, if he was happy now.

                “I’m ready, Derek,” he murmured, resting their foreheads together. He bumped their noses, seeking more kisses. Derek appeased him, his heart expanding with fondness. Surely the swell of affection would split his chest open. The irony would be delicious: to die on the night of the war’s close, from the lips of a newly subjugated orphan boy.

                Stiles rose onto his knees, steadying himself with a sturdy hold on Derek’s shoulders. One hand kept slipping, slick with oil. They were both splattered with it, and the general’s supply had most definitely been depleted within the span of an hour, but it was a small cost compared to the benefit.

                He guided Stiles down onto his cock, holding the boy by one hip, under one thigh when Stiles’ legs shook. The boy released a pained, cracking moan in the first few seconds of penetration. His chest heaved, and he settled gingerly back into the general’s lap.

                “Take your time,” he cooed, running his hand over Stiles’ shorn hair, pressing his palm to Stiles’ frantic heart.

                His own wasn’t much better. When had he had sex last? Six months ago? More than a year? Irrelevant. The others all paled in comparison, hollow, foggy memories, insubstantial.

                Derek was unaccustomed to tremorous hands. One didn’t remain undefeated in battle without mastery of the spear, the short-sword. His hands were always sure and agile.

                Now, they only ceased shaking when he splayed them across Stiles’ naked skin. Resisting movement—the nearly overpowering urge to _fuck_ back into the boy—was like trying to ignore a persistent itch. He clenched his teeth and tried to breathe evenly, vowing to remain still, to allow Stiles to take his time, to retain control.   

                The youth’s body welcomed him, parted for him, yielded to him. It was irresistible. He had secured victory and honor in dozens of battles, but never had he treasured a submission such as this one.

                “I’m ready.” The orphan’s eyelashes fluttered. Some of the pressure lifted from Derek’s thighs, Stiles slowly raising back onto his knees. “I’m…” His exhale stuttered and died, substituted for a sharp intake of breath.

                Stiles worked down his cock little by little, a youthful spring in his hips, the lean muscle in his thighs flexing. The boy’s fingers twitched against his shoulders, and Derek slid one of Stiles’ hands back into his hair. With his hands steadying Stiles’ hips, there was no danger of the boy losing balance.

                Stiles’ eyes snapped to his, dark and dilated, staring at him with slight wonderment. Yes, he was observant, a bright boy indeed. With little other suggestion, Stiles slid his fingers down to Derek’s scalp and tugged, just enough to make the general’s eyes water, pleasure prickling and burning low in his belly.

                “Ohhh.” The boy hung onto the word and strung it out, his eyes rolling as he fell into a gentle, riding motion.

                “The whole way down,” Derek whispered, leaning in to lick a bead of sweat from the hollow at the front of Stiles’ throat. The boy whimpered and tightened his grip on Derek’s locks, spreading his knees so he could sink down farther.

                “Do you like it?”

                Stiles gasped, “With you, I do.”

                “Try rolling your hips.” Derek rested his hands on the outer curves of the boy’s haunches as he undulated slowly.

                Stiles moved with sinuous grinds. His mouth was shiny and open, a blush gathering on his cheeks. Sometimes his eyes would slip closed and his breath would hitch.

                “Derek, I need more.”

                With little hesitation, the general wrapped both arms around the foreigner’s back and thrust up into him. Stiles made a broken noise and reached down between them, fondling his cock. He fucked hard and fast into the boy, and it was probably a good thing that the full force of his motion was constrained with Stiles planted in his lap.

                The orphan yelped as he came, twisting the handful of Derek’s hair ferociously. The sharp sting mingled with the intense pleasure of Stiles’ hole pulsing and clamping around the general’s cock. He barely lasted another minute before he spilled.

                The boy rose off of his cock and collapsed against him, and Derek dropped to his back, panting. He rubbed the bristly crown of the boy’s head, and Stiles crawled higher up his body to exchange lazy kisses.

                “So that’s what it’s like,” Stiles mumbled, nuzzling underneath Derek’s chin. He sounded moments away from sleep.

                The general laughed warmly. “We need to clean up first.”

                “I feared you would say that,” the boy grumbled. He rolled off of Derek, his heavy-lidded eyes following the general around the room, his expression soft.

                Derek wiped them both down, raising his brows as he cleaned the ample streaks of Stiles’ come off of his own abdomen.

                “What a healthy boy you are,” the general teased, smirking gently.

                Stiles’ face bloomed crimson in a matter of seconds, and he slapped Derek’s shoulder half-heartedly. “You beast.”

                Derek plucked his hand and pressed heavy kisses to his knuckles and palm. “You struck me. Under imperial law, I could have you punished grievously.”

                “You wouldn’t dare,” Stiles whispered, placing a firm kiss on Derek’s lips. The youth looped his arms around the general’s shoulders, and they shared a look for a few moments in silence. Derek’s eyes flickered across the boy’s face, and he sighed.

                “No. I never would.”

                Stiles crawled under the covers first, and Derek slid in after him. The orphan sidled close and laid halfway across his chest, and the general gathered him in his arms.

                “I’m leaving tomorrow,” Derek announced quietly. “My men and I. We’re returning home.”

                All Stiles said in reply was “Oh.” His fingers twitched against Derek’s breastbone, his body fidgeting under the blankets.

                “I want you to come with me.”

                The boy lifted his head to look at him, his expression stern. “You’re serious?” Stiles chewed his cheek for a few moments. “If I were to come with you, would it be as your whore?”

                Derek cupped his face. “I’m sure that is what they will think, but no. You would be under no compulsion from me, and no harm would come to you.”

                “Because they would all think I was yours?” The general swallowed around the little thrill that ran through him at those words. He knew better than to give any weight to them.

                Derek nodded.

                “One perk of being the Dust-Maker of enemy cities?” Stiles’ jesting rang hollow, his smile a little too strained.

                The boy was overwhelmed with thought and indecision, so Derek added, “Think about it? Let me know your decision in the morning? We leave at first light.”

                The orphan’s only response was a small kiss, gloriously sweet and fleeting.

* * *

                Stiles gave him his decision first thing in the morning. The delivery was not ideal. He awoke to a lonely bed, the boy’s side long-cooled.

                It was an abrupt disheartening that Derek experienced, like the swooping jolt one felt when missing a step. He had no claim over the youth, and even if he did, the thought of binding Stiles to him against the orphan’s will was too repulsing to consider.

                Maybe Stiles thought this would be easier than a goodbye.

                He dressed himself in his cuirass, his greaves, his helmet. The men stifled the smoldering fires, tore down the tents, and packed the few horses.

                Derek mounted his mare and led the infantry.

                They had scarcely traveled a mile when he heard soldiers shouting a message up the line.

                “Sir, a vagrant is tailing us and closing distance. What should be done about him?” a warrior called.

                The general spun his horse around and raised his arm to halt the line. “Stay put,” he ordered.

                He led his mare at a trot, passing row after row of men. Derek didn’t entertain false hopes. He was a pragmatist by nature and duty, and yet, this couldn’t be just a coincidence.

                The approaching figure was distant, but the outline was detectable. The person was running. Derek nudged his horse into a gallop, closing the space between them.

                He couldn’t discern the first detail that confirmed it was Stiles. Perhaps it wasn’t anything physical at all, but a feeling, an intuition. He did know the moment the boy recognized him though.

                Stiles stopped and bent over, bracing his hands against his knees, catching his breath. The general dropped to the ground, keeping hold of his steed’s reins.

                “In my defense, my lateness is entirely your fault.” Stiles straightened up and placed both hands on his lower back, panting and swallowing.

                “How is that?” Derek humored him, smiling as he untied the water skin from his pack.

                Stiles took the water with a grateful smile and drank deeply. His forehead was glistening with sweat, cheeks pinked from the exercise. He wore a fresh chiton with a satchel tied around his shoulder.

                “I was the fastest boy in my city growing up. Under normal conditions, I would have been back at your tent before you awoke.”

                “‘Normal conditions?'” The general quirked an eyebrow.

                “My ass is more than a little sore today, thanks to you.” Stiles further supplemented his complaint by making a vague, flapping gesture towards Derek’s groin. “It has limited my mobility.”

                Derek chuckled and stepped close, resting his hands lightly on Stiles’ hips. “Forgive me,” he pleaded softly.

                Stiles’ answering smile was coy. “I suppose.”

                “You went home?” Derek jerked his head towards the satchel.

                The youth nodded. “To collect a few things I had hidden away. Family trinkets and some clothes.” The orphan patted the sack.

                “Well, I can relieve you from further running, but I’m not sure the ride will do anything to improve your…condition.” The boy snorted as Derek lifted him by the hips, boosting him onto the horse’s back. The general climbed onto the mare afterwards and settled behind Stiles, gathering the reins once more.  

                “I will endure it. For you,” the boy quipped, dropping his head backwards onto Derek’s chest, smoothing his hands down the mare’s broad neck.  


End file.
